


V Day

by scarredsodeep



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: 17 year old Patrick, Canon Compliant, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Pure Saccharine, Technically the age of consent in Illinois, Valentine's Day, Van Days, Virginity, welcome to the scumbarony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 15:30:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9768191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarredsodeep/pseuds/scarredsodeep
Summary: They have a show on Valentine’s Day because Pete thinks it’s romantic, sweating in a basement on a Wednesday night while Patrick screams about Pete’s ex-girlfriend and no one knows the words.Pete’s right.Translated to Chinese by the talented InfntyOnHghhere!





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [V Day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13631613) by [InfntyOnHgh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InfntyOnHgh/pseuds/InfntyOnHgh)



> About an hour ago I realized I have been so emotionally involved with anger and joy about AFI right now that I totally forgot to write fluffy Peterick for Valentine's Day???? I couldn't miss a holiday, guys. So I came straight home from the gym and sat down and wrote this. I'm real sweaty rn. It's disgusting.
> 
> I LITERALLY have not read this over; I wrote it in about 70 minutes. It has not been proofread and might suck. But I wanted you to have it anyway. Be my Valentine?
> 
> (okay and then AO3 went down and though I tried all night, I then fell asleep, and this was not actually posted on Valentine's Day. THIS IS NOT A REFLECTION ON MY LOVE FOR YOU. I still haven't proofread it though. Like Pete, I am basically terrible.)

 

They have a show on Valentine’s Day because Pete thinks it’s romantic, sweating in a basement on a Wednesday night while Patrick screams about Pete’s ex-girlfriend and no one knows the words.

Pete’s right.

It’s their first Valentine’s together. Not that they’re together. They’re—fuck, Patrick has no idea what they are to each other. He has no idea what it means when Pete smiles at him like he’s the reason smiling was invented, or what it means when they’re roughhousing and he can feel Pete’s hard-on rubbing on his leg, or what it meant that time Pete pushed him up against a smelly fucking wrestling mat and kissed the corner of his mouth—well, mostly his chin—in a community center gymnasium after one of their first, worst shows. He doesn’t know what it means that after that they’ve kissed on or around the actual mouth on two occasions or what it meant the one precious afternoon they found a disgusting old crackhead couch in the woods and made out on it, bodies melting together, until the sun went down and Patrick’s face was raw from Pete’s stubble.

All Patrick knows is that last Valentine’s Day, he didn’t even know who Pete Wentz was. This one, he does. Necessarily, things are very different.

Here are things Pete finds romantic, based on Patrick’s knowledge of him: car crashes; smeared eyeliner; screaming hoarse into a microphone about all the ways your ex might die; going to the emergency room and complaining of chest pains so he can get an x-ray of his heart for his fucking Valentine. Pete is basically terrible. Patrick doesn’t know how he gets himself into these situations. He doesn’t know why he wants so badly to be Pete’s Valentine.

The point is, Pete Wentz is not really someone you get flowers for. Chocolates aren’t going to cut it. Fuck balloons. Teddy bears—well, actually, teddy bears might work. Pete’s got a weird thing about bears. But tonight is _definitely_ not about whatever the bear thing is.

Tonight, Patrick’s going to give Pete his virginity.

After the show, Patrick convinces Pete to ride home with him. Patrick drove himself to the show instead of riding with Joe for exactly this purpose. Listen: when you’re 17 years old, still in high school, live with your parents, there really just aren’t that many places available for sex. Especially when the 23 year old you want to have sex with also lives with his parents, and/or in a dorm double that has a severe lack of privacy.

This is a long way of saying Patrick is going to proposition Pete in the back of a hand-me-down SUV that used to belong to his _mom_. It’s not, like, an especially proud moment.

But it’s Valentine’s Day.

Pete is rambunctious from the show, filling up the passenger seat like he’s the second sun, making the whole car warm with his laugh, the expansive movements of his excitable hands while he takes Patrick point-by-point through the highlights of the show. The show Patrick was _also at_. The show Patrick was _also in_. Pete is very obnoxious.

Pete is very. Pete is—perfect.

“So then like, I thought for sure you were doing the intro for Switchblades and Infidelity, and I was like, _whoa, Patrick’s gone rogue_ , but then I thought what if I messed up the set list in my head? So that’s when you heard me start the wrong bassline, and then like, Joe skipped a whole measure just to stare at me incredulously and Andy’s doing his Andy thing, just hammering away without any concern for any stupid thing I’m gonna do, so you’re playing alone with the wrong bassline and you open your mouth to sing and that’s when I realize, it’s—Patrick, this isn’t my house.”

The unstemmable flow of words from Pete’s mouth stops, for goddamn once. Instead of Pete’s parent’s house, Patrick has driven them to an abandoned industrial park. He parks the car out back, by the semi loading bays. The single light next to each bay flashes green, the pulses never quite lining up. As empty parking lots go, Patrick thinks it’s kind of pretty. It’s private, is the main thing.

Now he’s just got to get Pete into the back of the car.

Patrick is staring straight ahead, hands in the 10 and 2 positions on the wheel, when his courage suddenly, tremendously fails him. Like it always does, come to think of it, when it’s time to say words to Pete or make moves on Pete or in any way communicate that he has _feelings_ here and it’s not all just been one urgent, sweaty accident—god, he’s glad he’s wearing a hat right now, he wishes he was wearing two more hats and one hood and never had to make eye contact with anyone ever again—

Patrick is staring straight ahead and there is no power in the universe that could make him look at Pete right now. His mouth opens and out spill the clumsy words: “Willyoubemyvalentine.”

Patrick wants to take them back immediately; he is the most embarrassing person on the planet; but Pete has gone still beside him, quiet, even though Patrick can still _feel_ the post-show energy coming off him.

“You want to be my Valentine?” Pete repeats. It is even more horrible when it comes out of Pete’s mouth. Patrick blushes redder than a foil-wrapped fucking heart.

“Or whatever,” Patrick says to the windshield. This doesn’t make it any better. Maybe the earth will open up, swallow him, do him a fucking favor for once? It is really fucking stupid, Patrick is realizing, to ask someone to be your _Valentine_ when you can’t even look them in the eyes when you want to kiss them. “Or not,” he adds desperately. Every time he opens his mouth it gets worse.

To Patrick’s horror, Pete begins to laugh. It is a soft laugh, so fucking _tender_ it makes Patrick want to drink oven cleaner, claw his own eyes out, remove his tongue with a potato peeler, etc etc. What he does is slide deep into his seat, so low the bill of his trucker hat smacks the steering wheel. He dares a sideways glance at Pete, who just for the record, he regrets _ever meeting_.

“Actually I got you this,” Pete says, and produces from his hoodie pocket a little pastel box of candy conversation hearts.

“Is this first grade?” Patrick grumbles, because it is eight hundred times more comfortable to complain about Pete than admit that a dumb box of gross, chalky candy is making his heart swell up in his chest, his gut tangle into knots.

“It’s full of whiskey, cigarettes, and condoms,” Pete says seriously. He thrusts the box at Patrick, grinning his crazy just-for-Patrick grin. “Only the finest for my Valentine. Want to make out in the backseat?”

Pete leans over the gearshift, tips his head sideways to peer under Patrick’s hat. The proximity to Pete’s lips makes Patrick reckless and drunk enough that the cowardice doesn’t matter so much. He darts his head forward, jabbing Pete in the ear with the brim of his hat but catching with his lips Pete’s sideways mouth.

Pete swivels Patrick’s hat to the side, lifts Patrick’s chin with one hand, brings their mouths to meet more deeply. Patrick’s mouth falls open at the first suggestion of Pete’s tongue, the feel of it cresting through his whole body in an impossible, gut-plunging, groin-flexing rush. In the dark, in Patrick’s car, in a parking lot, they _kiss_. It is, technically, the fifth time. Patrick releases the steering wheel—stupid thing to be holding, really, when Pete’s right here—and finds Pete’s hand. Pete drops the box of candy hearts, which falls to who cares where in the car, probably to be crushed into the floor mats, in order to intertwine his fingers with Patrick’s. Pete holds his hand all the time—when he’s excited, when he’s impatient, when they’re in the back of Joe’s car on the way to practice. It’s different, when their palms and wrists are pressed, pulses met, their hearts beating one to one while the twin beats peak. It’s different, when they’re kissing with _intent_.

When they break for breath an indeterminate length of time later, Pete’s forehead grinding against Patrick’s and his slick open lips parted and panting centimeters from Patrick’s own, Patrick is just sexed up enough to say, “I actually did get you condoms, though.”

“Are they at least in a heart-shaped box?” Pete asks. His voice is hoarse and blurred and low.

Patrick kisses him again, quick and hard, because he just—fuck, he _loves Pete so much_ , it is fucking _absurd_ , but that’s what he’s dealing with right now. “I’m not joking,” Patrick whispers, bringing his lips very near Pete’s ear. “Let’s get in the backseat and—do everything to each other.”

These words have the opposite of their intended effect. Rather than lustily tearing off Patrick’s bodice and, like, ravishing him utterly, which is definitely what would happen if they were in a Scottish romance novel, _not that Patrick reads those his mom just has a lot of them laying around it’s not a big deal_ , Pete pulls away. Only a few inches, but this distance is intolerable, leaves Patrick cold. February is not a warm month, in Chicago. The windshield is so fogged from the heat of their bodies, they are finally totally alone. No one can see in, they can’t see out. Patrick has no need to, maybe ever again. So long as Pete’s on the same side of the glass he is, Patrick’s got plenty to see.

“Wait, like, _everything_ everything?” Pete asks. Pete is actually the one of them who’s supposed to be good with words. Technically it is his job.

Patrick can feel himself blushing, which is miraculous in and of itself, because he was 98% sure that every drop of blood in his body was actually in his dick at this particular moment. “Um, yeah,” he says. “You know—V Day.”

Pete raises his eyebrow so high it risks getting caught up in the earth’s fucking orbit. “That is,” he says in a strangled voice. “Wow. That is a _very_. A tempting. Wow. _Fuck_.”

Patrick decides to take that as an affirmative. He unzips his jacket, starts struggling out of its puffy confines. But Pete’s hands catch his at his neck when he starts to undo his button-down.

“I’m, like, flattered. And honored. You should know I’m flattered and honored,” Pete starts. There’s a delayed reaction: at first Patrick’s just grinning at him, dopey and lovesick, and then the actual meaning of the words penetrates the thick smog of lust swathing Patrick’s brain. “And I definitely—wow, yeah, I would definitely like to be the one who—”

“Are you _turning me down_?” Patrick demands. It comes out more forcefully than he meant it. He sounds fucking _pissed_. Actually—he kind of _is_ fucking pissed. “You are a shitty goddamn Valentine!”

“That is just un _called_ for,” Pete protests. “I will get you roses and take you out for a candlelit fucking dinner if what you want is a _Valentine_. But if you want a quick fuck in the back of your truck then, like, you’ve got the wrong guy. Because that’s not how I feel about you.”

Patrick would be heartbroken if he wasn’t so focused on punching Pete’s horrible, handsome face. “We were just fucking making out? Like, not even for the first time? Seriously, if you don’t have a boner right now, I will run naked laps in this parking lot. I know how you fucking _feel_ about me.”

Pete tries, badly, to stifle a laugh. “Oh my god, what? If I could trade this erection for that sight, I would do it in a second. But no, like—I meant, I don’t feel _quick fuck in a truck_ about you. I feel _candlelight dinner_ about you. I feel—this is probably stupid, but I feel— _rest of my life_ about you.”

Patrick just stares at Pete after that. The power of comprehension has, apparently, totally fucking left him, because he cannot process what he’s hearing on a basic, phonemic level, let alone _believe_ it.

“And, uh, I guess I decided the most appropriate way to express that was with a box of candy hearts? Because you could take it seriously if you wanted but it wasn’t a big deal if you, um—just dropped it on the floor. I didn’t know if you really liked me, or—what. You’re very confusing,” Pete adds, a trace of accusation in his voice. “I want to kiss you every day? But you won’t, like, look at me after I do, so then I think it’s probably a bad thing and I should stop, but then I spend all this time around you and it wears down my willpower and before I know what I’m doing, I kiss you again. It kinda just loops from there. I mean, _you_ know. You’re there.”

“Kiss me every day,” Patrick says weakly. His heart has actually exploded. He’s dead, currently. It’s just taking his body a bit to catch up. He’ll be corpsified soon enough.

“Yeah?” Pete’s eyes have this precise shine to them. Patrick doesn’t think he’s ever seen it before.

“Yeah. Um—in the least weird way possible—do everything to me.”

Because he’s Pete Wentz, he says, “What if I want to use your bone marrow in a soup? Like, what’s the scope of that ‘everything’?”

“Why would you fucking _start_ with that? What’s wrong with you? You are awful at being romantic! We can talk about soup, okay? But can we like—have sex or dinner or something first?”

In a night full of surprises, Pete surprises him again. He reaches across the car and pulls Patrick into a huge, crushing hug. For a moment Patrick thinks the soup thing was not just a weird Pete joke, was a true confession of his serial killer not-really-boyfriend, and that he’s going to be boa constricted to death; but then Pete’s grip slackens. He tucks his chin on top of Patrick’s head and inhales deeply, like he’s smelling Patrick’s hair.

“Ugh. Wash your hat, dude,” he laughs. His voice is terribly full of fondness. Patrick has the most peculiar feeling in his chest, like he might cry or sing or split in two, effervesce into complete happiness, and spill out of his skin as pure silver light. “Let me take you to dinner?”

“And after dinner?” Patrick presses. “Can we get in the backseat then?”

“Well,” Pete allows, “it _is_ V Day.”

It’s the best fucking Valentine’s Day Patrick has ever had.


End file.
